The Christmas Post
by mysweetone
Summary: Post S5-Canon-AU. One-shot. Edith receives a post just before Christmas.


_A brief Christmas card: I wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and a Blessed New Year… Thank you, with love, for reading and writing and, in general, being the most wonderful online friends._

_Hope you enjoy…_

* * *

"The post ready, Sir?"

Anthony glanced to his man. "Yes, Stewart, thank you. Mostly cards, you know." The gentleman finished his final bite of the meager breakfast, hastily swallowed his last bit of coffee. As he stood, Anthony gave his man a final nod. "Smaller than usual, I suppose, but best to get them sent on."

"Of course, Sir. It's nearly Christmas."

Stewart watched as the gentleman gazed for a moment beyond him and out the window to the sliver of neighboring Crawley land at the edge of the horizon—simultaneously too close and much, much too far.

"Are you—"

"Fine, Stewart."

The valet stepped outside onto the drive before realizing the neat, uniform stack—usually bound—began to slide between his fingers. One slipped further and by the time Stewart realized, he snatched it up.

_Lady Edith Crawley_

"Wh—" Stewart froze. When he finally did breathe, he spun and glimpsed the windows and the door of Locksley. No one there. The valet considered: Was this purposeful? A mistake? How many times had the master of Locksley left ink-stained letters and envelopes with the haunting name on them but empty or discarded or unfinished? "Every Christmas…each birthday…" he whispered. "Every May…" Stewart started back inside to make certain but stopped just as suddenly. Had his heart changed? Realized the miracle of the love they'd shared and—now? A surge of memories seized him and, he realized, even if this was a mistake—it wasn't.

Edith watched as Marigold tried to sit down gracefully next to the presents and tree but toppled instead, grinning up at her mother upon landing squarely on her bottom.

"My darling girl," Edith said, absently opening the morning's post.

_My Sweet One_

Edith's smile fell. A rush of blood as everything around her disappeared, muddled into a pounding in her head as her eyes tried to focus through the pricking heat of tears. "Oh my God."

_Please forgive me. I've always_

There was the beginning stroke of another letter and the rest was blank. Edith blinked rapidly, swiped at her eyes, read the words again and saw the date: 23rd December 1922. "But it's been years…" She glanced to her daughter whose tiny hands had found the beautifully wrapped bows and then Edith looked down again at the card she held, her fingers turning the envelope over to trace the handwriting. "Anthony, why…why now?" When Edith peered up again, Marigold was beside her.

"Mama?"

Edith kissed her daughter's temple. "It's all right," she said, though another tear inexplicably slipped down her cheek. "Mama's just…" She couldn't describe it. There were no words for the emotions churning within, no answer for the questions she had chased ever since… Marigold intuitively wrapped her arms around her mother's neck and Edith held her tight.

She told no one.

As the Crawleys shared a Christmas Eve together, the children glowing with cheer and the adults merry with imbibed delight, Edith, who remained utterly sober, observed—aloof and distracted. The bedtime hour and Father Christmas loomed, and Edith tucked Marigold in with a fantastical story of magic and saintliness amidst the backdrop of an evil king and a poor young woman in love and a show of Christmas kindness—enough dowry to marry her only slightly-better-off lover. Marigold shifted beneath the covers and revealed her tiny hands to applaud the happy ending.

Edith laughed and clapped, too. "Good night and sweet dreams, my darling," she whispered, kissing the tiny girl.

"Magic," Marigold said. "Kiss-mas magic."

"Yes, it's supposed to be a magical time of year. Happy Christmas. I love you so much."

Marigold held out her petite arms and embraced her mother enthusiastically. "Love you, Mama." Edith straightened the covers once more and turned out the lamp, knowing her daughter would be asleep within moments of the door closing behind her.

Returning to her room, Edith took the card from her drawer where she'd placed it before the dinner festivities. Was the final letter a 't' or an 'l' or…? She studied it for a long while; holding it, she went to her window and gazed into the darkness, her fingertips on the glass pane as she imagined the moonlit boundary beyond her sight in the distance so far away…

'Twas the night before Christmas at Locksley House and the only one stirring was the lone baronet by the fire with a book in the beloved library. The hour was late, the house silent and mostly dark, the brandy nearly gone in the glass beside his elbow.

Until a loud knock disturbed the tranquility.

Anthony started, uncertain as to what or who that could be. Then, it came again—more insistent. Looking first to the windows, he saw the white grounds and the flakes flying, landing with determination to stay for some time in the wintry night. He hurried to the door, fearful a stranger might be stranded or some other trouble might be afoot and opened it—

Edith's eyes shone bright in the darkness, her lashes blinking with the delicate flakes lighting and gently melting upon them. She looked up at him, a mixture of fright and uncertainty, and then noticed just above him a sprig of mistletoe. Her eyes fell then to stare at the ground, to curse herself for coming at all.

Anthony stood before her, a slight shiver evident as his dark cardigan sweater failed miserably against the chill of the weather and the shock of seeing her on his doorstep.

She looked to him once again and shook her head as he opened and closed his mouth, incredulous. Their breaths were heavy in the night, a swirling of white in the ghostly twilight. Her dark eyes met his, flashed to his lips and then the mistletoe again, and she stepped closer, her hands gripped his sweater, tugged him closer, and felt the warmth and sweetness of brandy on his breath as he succumbed and let her press her lips to his. Soft and dry and so warm, so obviously telling of his feelings and just—

"Like I knew it would be," she said, her mouth still by his as her hands smoothed the wool fabric covering his chest. Edith didn't back away; she held her ground, held him close. One hand reached and touched his cheek. "An—"

His lips were on hers before she could finish. Another moment and she was inside, the door supporting her back as he surrendered his heart to her …

In the wee hours of Christmas morning, as Yorkshire slept, Anthony tried to piece it all together—the card Edith spoke of receiving, the one he'd written so long ago that somehow found its way to her; the confession that there were many such cards, begun and abandoned, and though he'd no idea how that one came to actually be sealed and mailed he thanked God for the angel miracle, his soon-to-be-wife, who fell asleep in his embrace, for the life that began anew that wintry Eve of the most magical time of the year…


End file.
